I Can’t Breathe

It’s been a hard week.

I’ve composed and dumped this post at least four times. It’s the last thing I’ve thought about as I fell asleep, crept into my thoughts repeatedly while I showered, worked, made dinner, watched TV, or tried to read. Thinking about it made my chest tight and my stomach sick.

I can’t get George Floyd’s voice pleading, “I can’t breathe,” out of my head. It’s haunting me. It should be haunting you.

George’s death has sparked some hard conversations and interactions with my friends and family. Some of them broke my heart, not only because of their position but also their unwillingness to listen. Don’t get me wrong – they hear what the black community and its supporters are saying, but they’re not listening. There’s a big difference.

Hearing is passive – it’s connected to your body’s autonomic nervous system. Just like you breathe without thinking about it, you hear without making a conscious effort.

Listening, on the other hand, is active. You choose to pay attention to what’s being said. Your brain takes in that information, processes it, and in big or small ways, it becomes part of your world view. That’s where things get sticky.

When we filter someone else’s story through the lens of our own experience, it gets diluted. Because it didn’t happen to us, it’s second-hand information. When added to the secondary filter of what we’ve been taught, it can become easy to dismiss other’s pain as nothing more than their side of the story, not a fact.

I have no idea – no matter how much I sympathize – what it’s like to be black in America. I can’t empathize – to do that, I’d have to experience it first hand. That’s never going to happen. I’m a middle-aged white lady married to a white guy with two white daughters.

I don’t think twice when my husband walks the dog through our neighborhood. People don’t cross the street when he walks toward them and women don’t clutch their bags a little tighter when he sits next to them on the train.

Before you get started, I know racism isn’t just an American thing. I grew up on Cape Breton Island in the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s. It was pretty white back in the day. The only black people I knew were the Evans, the Jefferson’s, and the Huxtables. There are First Nation’s people living on reservations on the other side of the island, but I don’t remember having much interaction between our communities.

My first real introduction to racism didn’t come until I was in high school – let’s just pause for a minute to think about that level of privilege –  can you even imagine?  When I was sixteen, my parents adopted three of my siblings, who happen to be mixed race – their mom was French Canadian and their dad Chinese. One day, a neighbor took a dislike to my brothers and referred to them as “the little black bastards.”

I’ve never forgotten what that man said. It was so ugly. It was so shocking. The little community I grew up in is predominantly made up of people who are loving and generous, the kind of people who welcome you into their home, pour you a cup of tea, and make you feel like you’ve known them all your life. That man doesn’t speak for them. I loved growing up there. But under the surface – a place so idyllic it’s on hundreds of postcards – was rot. I don’t know that man’s story. I don’t know what experience he had that made those sentiments fester until they spilled out onto my brothers. It doesn’t matter.

To bring us full circle, I don’t know Derek Chauvin, the officer who knelt on Geroge Floyd’s neck and killed him. I don’t know what kind of husband or father he is or what happened off-camera.

I don’t know the other officers who stood back and let the events of last Monday unfold. Otherwise good people have stood by and allowed atrocities to happen since time began.

To be honest, the things I don’t know could fill the Library of Congress.

I don’t know what it’s like to be a black man jogging in a mostly white neighborhood and be hunted down and shot by two white men because I “fit a description.” (#amaudarbery)

I don’t know what it’s like to ask a white woman to leash her dog and follow the posted rules only to have her scream and make a false police report because “she felt threatened” by my respectful tone. (#christiancooper)

I can get pulled over for a traffic ticket and not worry that I’m going to get shot by the white officer questioning me. (#philandocastile)

This is what I do know. If anything in this post so far has offended you, we’re not on the same side.

I also am fully aware and own that there have been too many times I’ve let racist comments or jokes be told around me and not spoken up. Honestly, sometimes I didn’t even catch it until later – that’s my white privilege speaking again. It’s just not on my radar, so sometimes, those subtle digs, the sly comments, my indifference, or unwillingness to engage in uncomfortable conversations left me silent.  I’m guilty, and for that, I am profoundly sorry and deeply ashamed. I will say it hasn’t happened often, but at my age, I’ve seen it, heard it, yet kept my mouth shut for the sake of being polite or playing nice. I’m done playing nice.

I don’t know how to explain it any more clearly than this:

Here’s what else I know. For far too long, white people like me have been silent. We’re quick to post something on Facebook with a “thoughts and prayers” theme, and we sincerely mean it. At least I do. But thoughts and prayers aren’t enough. To continue to live the way we have is unacceptable – and you know what? It hasn’t been for a long time.

When President Obama was elected, the country said, “Look, we’ve turned the corner on racism!” Wrong. It just went underground. Blame the current administration, blame Obama, blame 300 years of racial tension – the problem remains.

I don’t know how to fix this. But the first step to fixing any problem is to admit that there is one. Own what you don’t know. If you’re one of those who say, I’m not a racist, but…” you need to pause and reframe your statement. Clearly, what you mean to say is, “I’m a racist, and…” Own it. 

Continuing to ignore what’s happening is saying, it’s not my problem, so it’s not a problem. 

For anyone, especially someone who claims to be a follower of Christ to see another human being as “less than,” regardless of the color of their skin, is wickedness straight out of the pit of hell.

One of my favorite components of the weekly Bible study I write is the “Make a Move” section with action steps to apply Sunday’s message. The gospel itself is a call to action. Jesus upset and offended people in positions of power all the time by speaking truth and standing up for those the rest of society dismissed. We, as His disciples, who adhere to His teaching and want to model it – are also called to action.

Are you seriously willing to stand by and watch your neighbor’s house burn to the ground while you complain that you’ve got crabgrass?

Believer, racism is offensive to God. Genesis 1:27 says we are created in His image. I am no more a child of God than a woman of any other race, nor is my husband a better reflection of the divine just because he is white.

Galatians 3:28 tells us that if you are a believer in Christ, “There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female. For you are all one in Christ Jesus.” Throughout the New Testament, we’re reminded that we’re justified by our faith – not works, not ethnicity, not nationality. Our most important identity is in Christ, not the color of our skin.

James 2:1 pulls no punches in telling us that to favor one group of people over any other is sin, and Mark 12:30-31 commands us to “Love your neighbor as yourself.’^[b] No other commandment is greater than these.”

When Jesus died to take the penalty for sin, that sacrifice was for all humanity.

This is my “Make a Move” challenge to you. Ask your black friends what their greatest fear is for their children and compare it to what you worry about. Be prepared to be profoundly uncomfortable. 

And if you don’t have a black friend, maybe that’s a good place to start.